Buried
by Rose of Brisingr
Summary: What if Loki had escaped the dungeons on his own? And what would Thor do then? Read this story and find out. Slight Thorki.


_'__They say freezing to death was a beautiful death._

_It would be like a slumber in which one glides in gently._  
_A final, peace-loving rest, numbing body and mind with a soft, ominous kiss allowing to solidify slowly._  
_It is like dreaming without a dream. A sky without sun. A night without stars. A picture without colors. Only white. White is the world, a brilliant scheme, while shadows already licking at the edges of your blurred vision._  
_And you lie there in silence, lips frozen, lids petrified, looking into the void._

_You lie there. Sleeping in the midst of eternity._

_Buried in the snow. '_

Loki's naked feet dip in the crystal clear powder till the smooth skinof his ankles are sunken in a sea of pale silver.

His eyes are strictly directed forward and icy as the winter, irredeemably encircling him from all sides. A sharp wind swirls in his hair, leaves trembling ripples on his shoulders.  
Undeterred, he continues, roams like a ghost through the bony bowels of the forest.  
Fine flakes float down from the tent of heaven, covering his simple clothes made of hemp and wool.  
(Satin is something for princes. And he is not a prince. Not here. Not anymore.)  
Aimlessly he wanders, sees everything, sees the branches, the treacherous stretch of their wooden claws scratching his skin, so that blood pearls trickle in the snow.  
A purple puddle streaks on the flawless surface. He thinks about wolves and how they have torn their prey with sharp teeth and fangs.

Looking.  
He is just looking around and does not concentrate on a single spot.  
Only further. Always and forever. Forward. Because there is no way back. Was there ever a way back? Or was it just one of his illusions ...

Loki does not think about it. He has given up. Past is past and Ragnarok is not willing to grant any of them a future. Merely does the present.  
But Loki has forgotten years ago what it's like to be at home in in the present time. How it is to live. He often thinks he has even forgotten that. Life. _His_ life. How life might taste without the rotting smack of regret, anger, guilt, betrayal.

And lie.  
Lie about lie.  
He is not her master, she is _his_.  
And she is good, so good to him. So kind. She protects him from himself. Keeps him from collapsing and breaking into a thousand tiny splinters. Directs his thoughts away from the dark realms. Smothers his doubts before they grab him by the throat. She is like the one he once called mother (and still does in secret). She won't let him down. She lets him go.  
The lie, oh, the lie is all he has left. And the lie tells him that he must pass through the iron forest. He must, because the trees there line up so close together that even Heimdall is blind for a few precious seconds. And Loki needs to be hidden from his unforgiving gaze as long as possible.  
Otherwise this will be his downfall. Again.

Quickly he scurries through the undergrowth, shy not a single obstacle, does not try to dodge the nature.  
Why should they? It does not matter. He feels no pain. No cold. His limbs are numb. The fingers numb and immobile. Nothing hurts. Nothing is important anymore.

Nothing is as engaging as the frost on his soul.  
It is the one who kills every other feeling in Loki. For the moment.  
And Loki is grateful. Very, very grateful for his emotional death.

His organism commands to wrestle him oxygen and he hardly realized the little clouds in the air that shape his warm breath.  
He is free now. Free! Escaped from the miserable prison, piled out of the cramped cell.  
_Free._  
Nothing else matters. Nothing else has meaning. No more.

**Freedom**.

But where shall he go from here now?

For the first time in hours Loki remains rooted to the spot, stays in place.  
The wind blows stronger, wedges brutally in his flesh and bites with an iron sharpness in the cuts and scrapes the prisoner has suffered during his daredevil outbreak.  
Yes ... where shall he go now? Which way shall he take?  
There are nine worlds in this universe and none of them welcomes him. From her blood, he is subjected to an ice giant and sex jötunn. (But he hates the ice giants.). Of the spirit forth he belongs to the Aesir and yet they have locked it behind pulsating grid. (He hates Asgard. And Asgard hates him.).

So where to? Where to...

Loki sits back in motion.  
He knows nothing else to do with himself, acts as if he was in trance. No place. There is no place for him. He has no home, no room to stay, no bed to lay in. And what he once called his home, was only lent.  
He is restless, a vagabond of worlds, an outcast on the run. Banned in his reasoning, to a small clearing in which the masses of snow layers is particularly high.

Loki raises his head and looks.

The white expanse shines in sparkling, immaculate splendor. Pure and blameless. Fresh and young. Without sin.  
Without -  
Loki plods in the approximate middle of the open area, then goes into a crouch.  
He reaches out, reaches into the crystal powder and squeezes it, very tight. Nothing. No cold. Only white. How happy he would be if he could be pure like this snow now.  
At this moment, the exhaustion of the long march rolles over him like an avalanche and sets clumsily into his bones, leaves him quiver slightly. The flakes of sky melt in his hair and run down his temples, but he does not notice.

He does not notice, because the lie keeps him only his fatigue in mind. Infinity, gluttonous fatigue.  
_'Get some rest '_, she whispers in his head and no matter who owns that voice, she is sweet as honey and as sharp as a serpent's tooth,_' Go to sleep. You are weak. Too weak for today. Tomorrow you will travel further. Tomorrow. '._  
And Loki, who the years have taught that it is not wise to follow the advice of disembodied voices, obeys without any protest.  
Gently, he embeds itself in the snow, his knees bend away.

He is hardly master of his senses. A slave to his unnamed longings.  
The forest fades before his eyes and seems nothing but a dirty fog in his perception in the end.  
His breathing is difficult. Heavy. Haltingly.

And he thinks about Thor.  
He thinks whether he is doing well. Without him.  
If he'll take the throne of Asgard, and rule the kingdom. Without him.  
Whether he will lead a happy life. Without him.

Loki folds his hands on his chest and looks at the mottled gray horizon.

The flakes fall and fall, soon encircle his bare feet, his trousers, adorn the hem and collar of his shirt. The snow covers him. Lovingly. With deadly tenderness.  
A rare calm sways over Loki. Peace. An unprecedented heat propagates in his interior, lurches up in his fingertips.  
He feels. He feels again. And it hurts.

He wonders if Thor will miss him.  
Sometime. At all. Or has he already forgotten him?

Loki takes a deep breath and feels like something is crumbling in his chest. Rattling he exhales again. It is like a death rattle.  
_'Only imagination'_, the lie conjures him, '_You're_ _fine. He is glad that you're gone. Believe me. '._  
And he believes her.  
The heat creeps into his bowels, conquering every inch of his flesh.  
Hot. He is so unspeakably hot. As he would stand in flames. He catches fire that burns the snow around him and breathes in his ears.  
And breathes. And breathes. And...

And he lies there in utter silence and does not move, his lips frozen, the lids petrified, looking numbly into the void.

He lies there. Asleep in the midst of eternity.

Buried in the snow.

Loki blinks lazily, as a hulking shadow throws over its curved shape above him.

He hears the sound of hands grasping at the snow, scraping his body roughly from unwanted accessories of forest nature. He looks up. His neck hurts. Vaguely he realizes that the snow flakes have stopped falling.  
The sky is coloured in blood. It is silent. So silent ... How long did has he slept?

A well-known voice utters curses. The sound of an angry bass shakes every fiber of his stiff body. Follows him to the marrow.  
_Why him? Why is it always him?_

"Why are you here?" Loki asks and his sentence is hardly a breath, whistling miserably from his split lips. His skin shimmers blue and feels stretched like leather.  
It has changed with the cold. The jotun genes saved him from death.  
Loki's vision clears up with time. Thor's face appears to him, receives form and life.  
They look at each other.  
Thor's eyes hold a flash of lightning, and his heavenly blue iris is clouded by so many different emotions that Loki cannot place in his exhausted mind. His senses are dwindling with every heartbeat, that tends to be embed within the snow carpet. It is a miracle that he is still breathing.

"Because _you_ are here.¨ Thor answers.  
And that's all he says. His chest rises and falls sedating, the metal plates of his armor shine dully in the dying sunlight. This declaration should probably do the trick.  
Loki would have probably laughed in amusement because of the meager choice of words, if he had been able to bring more than a choked whisper upon his violet lips.  
"How did you find me? " he wants to know.

Thor squats down and leans over to him, grabs his wrist, pushing it out of the powder and wipes last ice crystals off the pale skin with his thumb (the sun warms up the blue jotun colour, changes it into a layer of toned cream). He taps the places where once scratches dwelt, but now there hardly seem to be more than a visible redness.  
"You gave me a blood track.¨ he says.  
Loki's perception is limited but he can see the disgust and horror in Thor's face too clearly.

¨This was not my intention." he murmurs softly, a smile struggling from a divisive split.  
Thor shakes his head.  
¨It was.¨ he says quietly.  
Then he bends down deeper.

Loki gasps in surprise when the similar presence of his brother envelops him like a cocoon.

¨Warm.¨ he presses out.

It is the first word that leaves Loki's mouth as Thor's broad, rough hands grab him a few inches below the waist and gently heave him up on his arms.  
For him he is as light as a feather. Loki knows that. He knows the power of his brother. Better than most. He was always the stronger one of them two. But this time no resentment resonates in his mind while he memorizes that fact.

"You've always been the only one who could keep me warm, you know that.¨ he whispers toneless, while he feels Thor's hot body rebound against his own. "Back when we were kids - no ceiling, no skin has warmed me the way you did. Only when you came crawling into my bed, I could sleep in peace.¨.  
His tone is driven by recklessness, the cold loosened his tongue.  
Anyway, it's all the same. He lost. Why, then, shouldn't he be honest to himself for once? Deception consumes too much energy which he cannot come up with now.  
Thor snorts. He seems amused. Or annoyed. Or both?  
That Loki cannot distinguish. Perhaps he does not want to,either.

"**You** crawled under **my** sheets, Loki. I do not contradict him in the deine.¨ Thor in a fit of spite and Loki closes his eyes. He does not want to discuss anymore. And yet discussions and dispute keep him alive. It is a fruitful relationship.

"Will you bring me back to jail? ¨ he mumbles and finally fear is rumbling in his syllables.  
He hates the dungeon. He hates his cell. He wants to be free. Remain free.

"And to take the risk that you break out one more time?", Thor shots back sarcastically, his brother's body pressing closer to him to prevent him from slipping away accidentally, "You're kidding me."

"But what do you want to do with me then? ¨

"This I do not know. But I know that never want to see such a horrible scene again.¨  
Loki raises an eyebrow. He is still weakened, he is slow to forces.

"Which scene?" he asks timidly. He is curious. A sign of improvement.  
Thor grinds his teeth.  
"Your apparent death in the snow.¨ he says hesitantly, "For a moment I really thought you were-.

He does not speak it out. Loki knows why.  
And he does not drill him to speak further. For good reason.

"Where should I sleep? ¨ he says instead, leaning his cheek against the smooth chest plate of armor, "My cell does not give me any comfort.".  
If that happens, he will break out again. It would be a vicious circle. Until they gave up searching. Until **Thor** gave up searching. At least _one_ would have to die to end this dance. And Loki cannot decide whether he wants to be first or second, who does.

Thor's mouth stands out sporadically. It is not a full-blown smile, but it is a start.

"The safest place in Asgard, of course.¨ he says and grins mischievously. (As in tehir childhood.). "In my bed. Until we find another solution. I'll talk to father.¨

"As before, then.¨, Loki murmurs sleepily, the recent promises of the thundergod intentionally ignored. He throws a sidelong glance at him. "You are sentimental as always, brother.¨

Thor shrouds in silence. And Loki is not exceptionally eager to break it.  
They leave the clearing without a single backward glance.

Soon Loki's eyelids flutter and he nods in Thor's arms.  
He is finally warm.

The lie that otherwise tormented and bewitched him remains behind them, buried in the snow. Alone.  
He does not miss her.

And while she screams in vain for help, asks for mercy, the frost on his soul begins to thaw slowly.


End file.
